


Sherlock Holmes' Incredibly Complicated Life

by Yourfavouritechild



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Assassins, Cancer, Character Death, Companion Piece, Drug Use, F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock's Cat, emotional breakdown
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-21 14:36:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yourfavouritechild/pseuds/Yourfavouritechild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has to kill three assassins before he can reunite with John Watson. But it's hard to keep motivated when the person you are fighting for is moving on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock Holmes' Message to John Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes disguises himself as an old man and delivers a letter to John Watson.

     Sherlock Holmes stared blankly into the bathroom mirror of flat 221B Baker Street. What he saw, though, was not his normal self. His stunning eyes remained the same, but it’s as if he had aged forty years within the hour. A saggy, whiskered face wielded bushy, grey eyebrows, and a puff of ginger-grey curls sat atop his head. Mrs. Hudson had helped Sherlock transform from a thirty-four year old detective to a seventy-four year old retired writer by 11:30 in the morning.

     “Oh, Sherlock…” was all Mrs. Hudson could say, hands clasped in front of her, peering around the detective’s shoulder into the mirror.

    _What am I doing?_ Sherlock questioned himself, the caterpillars on his face coming together. _This isn’t rational, this is risky, this is stupid, and this is all I can do to get close to him again. What if he doubts the validity? What if he thinks its a prank? What if it makes him feel worse? God, this damned mask itches._ Sherlock remembered what Irene Adler had once told him, that a disguise is always a self portrait. What did that mean for him, right now, hidden behind a wrinkled mask? _Am I old on the inside; a lone elder man, grief stricken and angry at the world for separating me from someone, from a friend?_     

     Sherlock took a quick breath, and then turned away from the mirror, looking down at Mrs. Hudson with sorrow-filled eyes.

     “Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson started. “I’m sure it will all work out for the best in the end, deary.” She patted her hands on his fallen shoulders. “Just promise me you won’t hurt yourself too bad, love.” The landlady gave a small smile and a kiss on the cheek. “You’re always welcome here,” Sherlock nodded in response.

      Time for Project Fallen Soldier (as Mycroft called it) to be put to action.

      Sherlock eased his way past Mrs. Hudson, towards the sitting area; his violin sitting forlorn on the coffee table, next to what appeared to be a rock. He snatched the fist-sized rock up with his right hand and tossed it in the air a few times. Tied to the rock was a note, presumably written by Sherlock, on cream coloured paper. Sherlock also saw John’s old cane leaning up against the far wall, and he made his way over to it. It was covered in dust, worn, and a bit short for him, but it worked well enough with his attire. 221B still smelled like Watson; his tea, his jam, his shampoo, even. Sherlock took a deep breath, his last intake of comforting scent for at least a few months.

       _What have I gotten myself into?_ Sherlock reprimanded himself. _Where is that damned letter?_

      Sherlock patted his pockets, finding what he was searching for in his front right pocket of his coat. He pulled out a square envelope, cream-coloured, with Watson written in swooping, black letters. It felt heavy in his hand, though in reality it weighed nothing. Sherlock checked his phone, 11:45. John would be arriving at the flat soon, and everything needed to be in its place by then.

     Sherlock turned to Mrs. Hudson, who had been standing in the kitchen watching, and gave her a nod.

      “Till the next time, Mrs. Hudson,” He said curtly, and dashed down the stairs quietly. Mrs. Hudson followed a minute afterwards.

      Sherlock stood at the bottom of the stairs to his previous abode, one hand on the doorknob. With a sigh, he heaved the door open and pressed out to the chilled London air. Delicately closing the ebony door of 221B Baker Street, Sherlock bent down and placed the envelope perfectly on the unswept ground. One last glance at the dingy golden knocker and numbers, then the detective began his walk across the street, assuming his role as an elderly man.

      It was a few minutes after Sherlock had taken his seat on the slightly uncomfortable city bench that John Watson began walked towards the flat. Sherlock sat up a little taller, observing.

      _John has shrunk a pant size, but can’t afford to buy new ones. He hasn’t slept much, only to suffer through nightmares if he does. His limp and tremor have returned, and he also made a few visits to his therapist since the fall. He was still feeling depressed; poor thing._  
     Sherlock focused, as John reached the flat and opened his letter.  He watched him sway a bit, then say “Sherlock…I miss you.”

      Sherlock’s breath caught at these whispered words, and he flushed a bit.

     _John…_

      The doctor found his composure again and made his way into 221B, calling for Mrs. Hudson.

     It began to sprinkle, the skies growing grey, and Sherlock’s eyes swelled. His ginger-grey curls bounce as he took a shaky breath.

     “I miss you too, John Watson,” he whispered to himself.

      People around the detective in disguise moved quickly towards houses or shops, besides two teenage boys. Sherlock eyed them, then smirked to himself.

       _Perfect._


	2. Planned Interruption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes breaks a window indirectly at 221B Baker Street.

     “Excuse me, young boys,” Sherlock projected towards two teenage boys.

     The two young men dissolved their conversation and halted a few metres away from Sherlock, or who appeared to be a ginger-grey haired elderly man. They exchanged glances, one raising a pierced eyebrow up at the other. Both gave Sherlock looks of confusion, as if abashed at being called ‘youngs boys’. The one with the eyebrow piercing and shaggy red hair gestured his head towards Sherlock, and the walked slowly up to him.

     “Are you talkin’ to us?” The eyebrow piercing raised again, and lips curled to a frown. Sherlock simply nodded at this question.

     “What ‘chu want wif us?” The other young man, wearing black jeans and hoodie, scrunched his nose, and looked Sherlock up and down.

     “Are you two boys aware of what happen to... Sherlock Holmes?” He faltered on his own name; both nodded. “Are you also aware of what happened to Richard Brook?” He forced those last two words out.

     Eyebrow piercing nodded, saying “He shot himself, didn’t he? Top a Bart’s, right?” He pointed at his friend, who mumbled a yes.

     Sherlock sat up straight, he turned his head to look away from the boys. _Show time_.

     “I... I am the father of Richard Brook. He was my only son, and he was taken by that damned Holmes fellow,” Sherlock began to tear up, faking of course.

     The two young men tensed, exhaling softly, muttering apologetic phrases.

     Sherlock took a quivering breath, his ginger-grey curls bounced on his fake, wrinkled skin. “Yes, well. anyway,” he began. “I was wondering if you two could do me a small favour. There is 50 quid in it for each of you, as well as helping a mournful father initiate revenge.” The detective closed his eyes for a second, shaking slightly. Sherlock was a splendid actor.

     Both kids looked at each other, conversing with their eyes. It reminded Sherlock of John, how they used to know what the other thought with just a look. Finally, they turned to him.

     “All right, old man, we’ll do it,” Red Hair started. “We’re sorry, mate, for your loss.”

     “Yea, always knew that Holmes had a fishy air too him,” Black Jeans added. “What can we do for you, then?”

     The detective smirked, if only for a second, then proceeded to flick his eyes between the two boys. “First, what are your names?”

     “Well... I’m Patrick,” hesitantly stated Black Jeans.

     “And me names Jackson,” inserted Red Hair.

     “Right, now boys,” Sherlock fished in his coat pocket for his money, taking out two 50 pound notes. He held one in each hand, placing them in front of either boy. “Here is your pay,” the two reached for them and Sherlock pulled back a bit. “For throwing what I give you throw the window of 221B Baker Street.” 

     The friends eyed the old man, then glanced at each other, and finally accepted the banknotes. They smiled at their new riches. 

     Sherlock reached for the rock and note he brought out with him, that he had placed to his right. The detective held that up in between the young men. “This,” he started. “Throw this.”

     Jackson grabbed it, examined it in his hand, Patrick leaning in to look. They shrugged, pleased with having earned 50 quid each for doing almost nothing.

     “In about,” Sherlock checked his watch. 1 minute, you will throw the rock through the window of 221B. Then you will immediately proceed to run down the block and turn the nearest corner. I will not allowed you two to get in trouble, fear not.” Sherlock raised his bushy eyebrows at the pair, tacitly asking for reassurance that they will do as he asked.

     “Yea, ok,” Jackson said, Patrick signalled his agreement.

     Sherlock checked his watch again. “Go, now.” He said, almost forcefully.

     The two blinked their eyes, the jogged lightly across the street to 221B.

     Sherlock watched from the bench, seeing John walk away from wherever he had been and go towards the kitchen.

      _Pardon this John, I don’t mean to interrupt but I can’t help myself_. Sherlock lip twitched up, starting to smile a bit but fading instantly as Jackson chucked the rock at the window, blowing a hole through it’s pretty lattice. Sherlock saw every little piece of glass crack and fall a story to the sidewalk, as the pair of teens made their getaway.  
Just as they were about to turn the corner, John’s angered face appeared at the window. He was cursing, and hit his fist against the glass. Sherlock sat up straight, prepared to be watched.

     Indeed, John stared at Sherlock, no doubt thinking deeply, for a straight minute till Sherlock couldn’t look out of the side of his eye any longer, and gazed right at John. Of course, John immediately shifted his eyes.

     Sherlock felt his phone buzz in his pocket, so he plucked it out, breaking his attention to John. The doctor, in turn, returned his view to the ginger-grey haired old man on the bench.

     The text to the detective was from Mycroft.

      _Sherlock,_

_A car will pick you up at 2:05 p.m. where you are sitting currently. Make sure to get it in and arrive promptly._

_-MH_

     Sherlock zipped a quick message back, just to keep Mycroft informed.

    _0/3._

_-SH_

     In two hours, Sherlock could finally peel the wrinkle face mask off and get rid of his itchy, caterpillar eyebrows. Till then, the detective observed his surroundings, making a game of finding patterns containing the number seven. He found several on each building, one on the sign of a coffee shop, and even one on the handbag of a woman walking by ( _single mom, a dog, office worker, likes to think she has more money than she does_ ).

     Sherlock was left to simmer in his thoughts, which he took full advantage of. Thinking of his next disguises, where the assassins could be, how to kill them, how much to tell Mycroft, etc.

 


	3. Sherlock Arrives at Mycroft's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes, his thoughts, and his arrival at Mycroft's.

     It was approximately 1:59 p.m. when Sherlock finally saw John Watson reappear from behind the ebony door of 221B Baker Street. He look drained, depressed, and in pain. His hair seemed to grey with stress by the second.

      _He was searching through my things (dust on his jacket), had taken my favourite picture of the two of us off my nightstand, and... no. He is in doubt. Doubting the legitimacy of my notes to him, feeling even more saddened that it might be a prank. Oh, no, no, no._

     John stood for about thirty seconds, leaning on his new cane, and carrying a small cardboard box underneath his left arm, till a gleaming, black car rolled up in front of him. The same dull woman opened the door, fiddled with her phone and gestured John to get in the car. Sherlock watched as John limped to the outer car door and sat inside.  
The windows were tinted, but Sherlock could ever so slightly see, and sense, the doctor watching him. The detective’s eyes watered a bit as he stared back at John, eyes digging into each others souls. The car began to pull away, but the connection wasn’t broken till John’s face disappeared behind the tint.

     Now it was only (Sherlock checked his watch, 2:02,) three minutes till Sherlock’s car would arrive. He, too, would be swept off to visit Mycroft.

      _What a lovely family reunion this will be._ Sherlock rolled his eyes at his own dull thoughts.

     At precisely 2:05, another sleek car pulled in front of the old man on the bench. No one got out of the car, but the elder man stood up and hobbled over to it. He opened the car door himself and got in, a bit more agilely than a man of his ‘age’ should have.

     Sherlock slammed the door shut behind him with a grunt. Finally, he could relax and get out of character. He was alone in the backseat, as he wanted, so he laid himself down across the seats. His feet and knees scrunched against the door, Sherlock pulled his ginger-grey wig off, revealing shorter-than-usual black curls.

      _Damn, fake hair is itchy._ Sherlock feverishly scratched his head with both hands.

     He placed the wig on his stomach, the peeled of his eyebrows off and put them atop his wig. The detective exhaled slowly. His wrinkly mask was still on, but he waited a few minutes till he pulled it off.

      _Ow, God, disguises hurt_. Sherlock put the mask gently with his wig and brows. _I wonder what John is thinking about on his car ride. Probably something with elves and hobbits, or what kind of dog he can get now that I’m not there to put the idea down_. Sherlock chuckled at his thought. But it was time to get serious. Sherlock had three assassins to kill before he could get back to life before the fall. With John, in 221B, solving crimes, laughing, with John.

     Sherlock spent the rest of the car ride with his hands, together like he was praying, resting under his nose and on his lips. Eyes closed, he was exploring every possible way to find and kill each assassin; over 263 different ways. Sherlock decided to make sure each assassin was killed quietly, quickly, and with least amount of effort. That narrowed it down to 128 ways.

      _Goodness._

     The car came to a short stop, then continued to drive after a pair of iron gates creaked open. Sherlock sat up abruptly as the sleek auto rumbled across a stone paved driveway. The car did not continue to where another black car was parked, with Mycroft coming down the steps to meet John. Instead the car took a right directly to the garage at the side of the huge victorian house. The car pulled into a white, six-car garage. A butler opened the door (“Welcome, Mr. Holmes”) and allowed Sherlock to step out, pressing his disguise to his stomach.

    _Butler for five years, no children, no lover, vegetarian._

     The detective was then leaded to a side door that opened to an elevator. The butler stayed with Sherlock, as Sherlock got inside the elevator. Sherlock glared at him, but said nothing as the elevator lifted to the second floor. The doors opened to reveal a pristine atrium, with two large, eggshell white doors with decorated golden trim and curly gold handles about 3 metres from the metallic doors where Sherlock and the butler stood.

     “Your room for your stay, Mr. Holmes,” the butler gestured towards the two large doors.


	4. The Beginnings of Afternoon Tea Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has tea alone. Well, not quite alone.

     “Yes,” Sherlock Holmes began, looking at the doorway to the bedroom he would sojourn in. He absorbed every detail, every minute scratch and dent that had ever been made and fixed; Seven nicks just under the handles where maids had brought trolleys with breakfast in, attempted covered up tiny blood splatters on the right hand side of the frame at about six feet up, darkened left hand corner of the frame from a cat rubbing against it, and a painted over scratch across the right doorway from a sword. _Ah, memories._

     “Thank you, Terrence, that will be all,” Sherlock said without even looking at the butler, still immersed in the particulars in front of him.

     Terrence didn’t give Sherlock a second look, knowing how the Holmes brothers were, and left him be.

     “Actually, send tea up,” Sherlock shouted to the butler who had hopped into the elevator. His order was accepted with a nod (“Be here in 10 minutes, Mr. Holmes”).

     Now that Sherlock was alone, he began jabbering off about things that had happened here. Not all deductions, some memories of previous encounters with Mycroft’s house guests.

     Sherlock reached for the two swirled, golden handles and pulled the two large doors open. He was greeted by a wide open room; dust was glittering in the sunlight from windows on the far side, stacks of books were everywhere, newspaper clippings and photos tacked the the wall above a fireplace, and a cat.

  _Oh dear Lord, it’s still here._

     The cat was a fluffy white persian, with a diamond studded collar hidden behind fur. He was perched, sleeping, on the mantel. His tail dangling on, head next to a framed picture of a cancerous heart. His ears perked as Sherlock titled his head back, heaving a frustrated sigh.

     “Why did Mummy ever gift you to me?” Sherlock grunted. The cat raised its head and let out a meow, as if saying the same back to the detective. He lept of the mantel.  
Sherlock made a disgusted face and turned, walking towards his temporary bed.

     “Recently washed, imported from France and,” Sherlock lifted up the covers to find a distressed looking stuffed bear with knotted grey hair. “Mycroft, why. I thought I threw out Albear Einstein.”

     Sherlock was about to pluck the old animal when the persian cat jumped up onto the bed, meowing, and laid down atop of it.

     “Sir Sigmund, do you mind?!” Sherlock waved a frustrated hand at the cat, who blinked in response. The detective walked away angrily and decided to sit in front of the window till his tea came.

     Sherlock picked a red, cushioned chair and plopped it just outside of the sunbeams from one window. He could see outside to a variegated scene; a dark forest, blooming garden, more house. So there the detective sat, wheels turning inside his skull about nonsensical things, at least nonsensical to him.

     Within five minutes, Terrence plowed into the room with a trolley (“Your tea, Mr. Holmes”), as Sherlock had not closed the two doors. Sherlock did not stir, so Terrence set the tea up on a little breakfast table that used to be placed next to the chair Sherlock was currently sitting in. The butler wheeled the trolley away, closing the massive eggshell white doors after him.

     Once they closed, Sherlock peered over at the tea steaming. He pressed himself out of the chair, dragging it behind him and falling back into it when he reached the foodstuffs.

     A plate of biscuits, tea pot, bowl of sugar and tea cup were settled together on a silver tray.

     The detective poured himself tea and stirred two sugars in.

     Leaning back into his chair, still stirring the tea, Sir Sigmund leapt upon his lap. Sherlock, however, did not shoo him. The cat cuddle up against Sherlock’s stomach, purring.


	5. Tea and Playing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is given his box of goods.

     Sherlock Holmes, sunken in a red cushioned chair, sipped his steaming tea. Sir Sigmund appeared as a fluffy white ball upon his lap. He eventually began to pet him lightly, his fur soft and warm. Sherlock hated the damn thing; it got fur everywhere, meowed at unreasonable times, got into everything. Basically Sir Sigmund was him but with a snowy coat.

     The cat purred and looked up at Sherlock with round, royal blue eyes. The detective stared back, almost half smiling, with his own galaxy filled eyes.

     There was a rapping at the door (“Mr. Holmes, I have a package”).

     Damian pulled the large doors open, and strode in with a cardboard box labeled ‘Experiment Fingers’ on the side. A violin and bow stuck out from the top. Sherlock lifted up from his chair, sitting tall, cocking his head and furrowing his brow; Sir Sigmund imitated him, then leapt off to investigate.

     “Delivered to here by a Doctor Watson, who is enjoying tea with your brother,” Damian stated. He walked over to the table with the tea, cleared a spot in between a plate of biscuits and Sherlock’s teacup. He placed the box gently down, then stepped back, awaiting instructions.

     The detective leaned forward in the seat, peering down into the box. He rose from his seat, his eyes delving into the box, then his hands. Pulling out his violin and bow, he placed it under his chin and played a few notes.

      _Yes, my violin, I have missed your sweet songs._

     Sherlock laid the instrument delicately onto the red cushion. He gazed down at the picture resting atop a pile of things inside the box.

      _Oh..._

     Eyes wide, the detective removed a framed picture of John and himself. How happy they had looked.

     Sir Sigmund wheeled around Sherlock’s leg, meowing rather warmly.

     Sherlock, still lost in the photograph, walked over towards his bedside table. He situated the frame facing inwards towards where his head would be. A daily reminder he had (and hopefully would have forever) a friend. He smiled softly down at it, sadness in his eyes.

     Damian coughed, shaking Sherlock out of his trance and spinning him around to face the butler.

     “Yes, Damian, I won’t be needing you for the rest of the day,” Sherlock clasped his hands together, shuffling back towards his tea and chair.

     “Tea and biscuits in the morning, then, sir? 8 o’clock?”

     “Yes, splendid, that will be all.”

     Damian nodded and strode out the doors, closing them behind him.

     Sherlock glanced a Sir Sigmund, who had ended up beside him, then the door, then the box, then Sir Sigmund again. Then he dashed for the table.

     Slamming his hands down onto the table, Sherlock dove into the box, plucking everything out.

     His dressing gown flew to the floor, as well as his favourite bee pants. His laptop was halfway thrown onto the ground.

     “Where is it?!” Sherlock shouted at the box. His skull was not present, and he disliked this. He chucked the box across the room, now emptied of its contents. He plucked his violin and bow from the red chair.

     Sir Sigmund meowed in a demanding tone, and Sherlock just scrunched his face and stuck out his tongue with a mocking meow.

     The detective thrust the violin to his neck. He played a few notes to find himself in the instrument again, then went at it. He played with force, anger, and vexed. Sherlock’s jaw was clenched tight, he bared his teeth and breathed heavily with the music. It was quick paced, sounding like the violin was yelling at the world. He poured out all his frustrations into the movements of his arm and fingers.

     Sherlock huffed, the notes resonating throughout not just his room but the whole house, which seemed to quake from the violin’s tantrum.

     If he was angry at the world, then the world would be angry with him.


	6. Companion in a Dusty Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock acquires information.

****Sherlock Holmes finished his angry violin playing with a swift motion and a high pitched note. He exhaled sharply, dropped the instrument from his shoulder and placed it on the chair.

     There was, yet again, a rapping at the door. Sherlock spun, gave an exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes with his head twirling then drooping down.

     No one entered, though, but a manila folder was slipped underneath the doors.

     Sherlock stood up straight, cocked his head, furrowed his brow. He pushed his chin forward a bit, leaning and walking towards the mysterious unit; Sir Sigmund following at his heels, meowing with questions.

     When he reached the wall, Sherlock knelt down, investigating the folder.

 _Delicately handled, secret files, ah yes what I have been waiting for._  
A smile bloomed on Sherlock’s face. He ran a hand down Sir Sigmund, who pressed his fluffy body into it.

     This was the folder. The folder of the first assassin to kill.

     Sherlock stood up quickly, flipping, infatuated with the information.

_Yes, yes, yes, exactly what I need._

     The current known whereabouts, employers, trademarks, etc. Sherlock could find this man and get rid of him within the month. It would be difficult, dangerous, and risky, but it was worth it. For John.

     Sherlock looked down at Sir Sigmund, who stared back up. The detective reached down and scooped up the cat, carrying him towards the bed. He released the fluff ball, then plopped himself down on the comforter. Sir Sigmund immediately cuddled up beside him, purring. Sherlock then began the long process of learning the assassin.

      _For John._ Sherlock kept telling himself, and he started reading up on the foe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We won't hear about Sherlock till a month or so (story wise, not in real time). It will go along with the companion John chapters, so once it is a month later in those, Sherlock's story will pick up again.


	7. Don't Wake the Sleeping John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes is a strange man who visits people unknowingly in the middle of the night.

     Sherlock Holmes stood in front of the door of 221B Baker Street. It was 2:20 am, and the detective was easily hidden in the darkness. Slowly, barely making a sound, Sherlock turned the handle. He inched the door open. Peering inside, he saw and heard nothing that showed someone had heard him. 

     Door closed behind him, Sherlock floated up the stairs, careful of the squeaky steps. Once in the sitting room, the detective meandered around the piles of things towards the broken window.

      _Still not fixed_ , Sherlock thought to himself.

     He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of folded white printer paper. Unfolding it, Sherlock leaned over the work table and snatched two pieces of tape. He placed the creased paper over the hole in the window and taped it down. It read:

_Tell Mycroft to fix ASAP._

     Since it was typed, John won’t know that it was from Sherlock, and would assume it from Mrs. Hudson.

    _He always assumes._

     Suddenly, Sherlock heard shouts coming from John’s bedroom. Sherlock sprinted to it, not caring if he made noise. He burst into John’s bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

     He found John writhing in his sheets, sweating profusely.

     “Sherlock! No! Sherlock!” He shouted pushing at the air above him with his hands. “Stop! Let me-” He cut himself off, groaning and twisting, a few tears streaming from his eyes.

     Sherlock just stood there, aching from seeing John this way. He took a step towards the doctor, wanting to help him.

     “John...” He whispered.

     “Sherlock!” He shouted, his twisting dying down.

     Sherlock knew he might wake soon, so he made to leave from the door, but something caught his eye. A picture frame, slammed down on the bedside table. Sherlock went over and picked it back up, placing it facing inwards.

     “Sher-” John whimpered, face contorting.

     Sherlock dashed for the window across from the bed.  He pried it open and lept out, landing on the fire escape. He heard John awak with another scream.

    _Too risky, I shouldn’t do that again._ But the detective knew he would, he could resist.

     Sherlock went down the fire escape as noiselessly as possible, heading to the sleek black car he had “borrowed” from his brother in the middle of the night, parked in the alley.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just checking in with Sherlock, a few small chapters before The First Big Kill.


	8. Coincidences Happen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whilst forced to bring Sir Sigmund to the vet, Sherlock spots a certain someone.

     Sherlock Holmes strode along a grand hallway, barefoot steps soft and head spinning around; Sir Sigmund stalked at his heels. The ceiling about six metres up, lined with golden trimmings and angelic murals. Sherlock hadn’t been to Mycroft’s home in years, and he was curious about how it changed. He was in his pyjamas, blue silk dressing gown fluttering behind him. Voices, coming from around the corner, in conversation. Mycroft was definitely one of them. Sir Sigmund meowed, startling Sherlock out of his concentration. He shushed him and waved his lanky fingers at the cat. The detective crept up the the wall, listening intently.  


     “Yes, sir, also an appointment with Dr. Boniface at 11:45 this afternoon and-” started most likely a servant with clear enunciation.  


     “Oh, yes, that,” Mycroft stressed the word that as if it was the plague. A pause, then Mycroft added “Mark that down that it will be undertaken by Sherlock.”

     At this, the detective burst around the corner, frowning and brow furrowed. “It most definitely will NOT!” He shouted at the pair, one hand grasped around the corner of the wall.  


     Mycroft and the servant were standing in another hallway, one doorway opened to an office. The older Holmes rolled his eyes at his brother and dropped his hands that had been fiddling with a paper.  


     “Please, Sherlock, you don’t even know what the task is,” Mycroft turned to his sibling, exhausted looking.  


     “Whatever it is, I’m not doing it. I’ve got work to do,” the detective crossed his arms and turned his head up the to ceiling.  


     “Any work you have you certainly aren’t attempting to complete it at this time!” Motioning to his frumpish attire. Sherlock simply scowled at his older brother.  “Goodness, Sherlock, stop being petulant. Sir Sigmund has an appointment at the veterinarian’s today, I thought it might be an acceptable way to out of this house for a bit.” His face crinkled to a smirk.

     “I don’t see why I have to go, can’t a servant take him?” Sherlock was rejecting the idea of bringing Sir Sigmund because he didn’t want to disguise himself, and seeing Mycroft irritated was amusing.  


     But Mycroft knew if he kept pressing and made an offering, his sibling would eventually give in. “Fine, but it will be even more arduous to complete your goal without the aid of my people,” Both Holmes knew exactly what he meant by this. No files, no assistant, and that meant a longer time before Sherlock could see John again and get back to life.  
The detective’s frown grew, his nose scrunching, for he knew he had to accept the burdensome task of bringing Sir Sigmund in for his check-up. He let out an exasperated sigh, his arms flying down to his sides and rolling his eyes.

     “11:45 you said?” Sherlock spat crossly.  


     “There, that’s a good boy.” Mycroft smiled in victory. “Yes, 11:45. And it is a forty-five minute drive.”  


     “Forty-five minutes! You-”  


     “You already agreed, now go get dressed! Be ready for 11!”  


     Sherlock threw his hands in the arms and stomped off. It was 10:30, so a quick shower was doable. Sir Sigmund padded after the detective, meowing as if to console him.  


     “Oh, shut up,” he muttered, glowering down at the cat, who in turn glared back.

  
  
     Sherlock sat in a sleek black car, his black curls slightly bouncing as it went over the stone driveway. He looked completely like himself; long black coat, blue scarf, dressy pants and shirt, leather shoes. The only thing different was a soft black mustache that slept under his nose. It itched like crazy, causing Sherlock to wriggle his nose often. Sir Sigmund was snuggled in his lap, getting white fur everywhere. The next forty-five minutes was silent outside of the detective’s head, but inside it was obnoxiously loud.  
Stupid Mycroft, sending me on a dull errand with this cat. He pet Sir Sigmund, his fur fluffy and warm against Sherlock’s cold fingers. The cat began purring under his touch.

    _Pointless attempt to distract me and get me out of the house. Ugh, time to think, now._ Planning for the detective’s ambitious task occupied his mind.  
  
     

     The car pulled up in front of a white building, small treelings in front with rocks at their feet. Sherlock stepped out, cradling Sir Sigmund against his person. The smell was natural, leaves and animals, a warm breeze caressed Sherlock’s cheek. The two stepped through a glass automatic door, suddenly engulfed in noise; Tweets, yips, the snickers of mice, shoes on cheap linoleum floors, tapping on the computer, scratching of claws, banging of crates. Synthetic illumination poured from the square lighting on the tiled ceiling, Sherlock groaned at this as it hurt his eyes. He was overwhelmed by his senses for a moment.  


     It was 11:44 the clock behind the reception desk read. The detective trudged over the the desk. A woman sat behind it, brown hair in a messy bun, scrubs with cat cartoons on it.  


  _Recently out of an abusive relationship, contacts, dead father._  


     She looked up at Sherlock, smiled awkwardly at the intimidating man, then lifted her hand to stroke the brown tabby sleeping on the desk. Sir Sigmund shifted around in Sherlock’s arms anxiously.  


     “Morning, how can I help?”  


     Sherlock hesitated, embarrassed almost to say the cat’s name. “Sir Sigmund here has an appointment at 11:45 with Dr. Boniface,” he ran his hand down the fluffy body just as the big hand of the clock hit 9.  


     “Okay,” she flipped through a book in front of her. “Dr. Boniface is just finishing up with another patient, he’ll be done in just a minute, sorry.” She half smiled. “Here is a form you have to fill out, might as well start now.”  


     Sherlock raised his eyebrows, snatched the clipboard she held out, and turned to sit on a red pleather seat located against the white wall.  
  


 

     At almost 11:48, the receptionist called to Sherlock telling him to go all the way down the main hallway and take a right. The detective stood up, Sir Sigmund leaning his head over the black coated shoulder. Another person appeared outside of the building, exiting from a black car.  


    _John..._  


     Sherlock wanted to stay, say hello, see that genuine smile, be in the doctor’s presence. But, of course, he couldn’t. Therefore, he started down the main hallway. He heard John’s voice, comforting even from a distance and not directed at him. Before he turned to go into the doctor’s room, he glanced back. John looked better than he had last time Sherlock saw him. He put less pressure on his cane, stood taller, with more light in his face. The army doctor was chatting up the receptionist, who had greeted John more warmly than she had him. Sherlock shrugged this off, used to being treated like less than human by anyone but John.  


    _The fact that we’re both here at this exact time seems more than a coincidence, though. Maybe Mycroft knew, maybe he planned this._ Maybe this is just a coincidence, but it meant something and felt different. Felt... like a string was tugging him back toward the receptionist, toward John’s side.

     Sherlock shook his curls, then headed through the white door with a glass window in front of him.

**Author's Note:**

> Companion chapters to John Watson's Incredibly Boring Life.


End file.
